Go Ask Alice
by K.C. Harte
Summary: A penniless young woman with a questionable past asks Brisco to prove the son of a wealthy shipping tycoon murdered her friend, even though there is no body or any evidence that a crime has been committed.
1. Prologue

**- GO ASK ALICE -**

By K.C. Harte

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DISCLAIMER: Characters and settings from _The Adventures of Brisco County, Jr_. are the intellectual property of Carlton Cuse, the late Jeff Boam, and any nameless entities who still own rights. In short, not mine; these characters are too much fun to leave idle. Characters you don't recognize are from my imagination unless otherwise specified. 

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Brisco ended way too soon. It seems a shame to let the characters collect dust. This story is set after the first season ended.

THANK YOU: To Jen, my beta and a rabid Brisco fan, even after all these years.

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- Prologue –

On the 30th of January, an icy wind blew into San Francisco.

Its origins were uncertain; perhaps it came from the hills, perhaps from the bay. It lacked direction, spinning the weather vanes on the roofs of the houses on Nob Hill to random orientations. Like the usual Bay area breezes, this wind whistled between buildings and down alleyways, rocking carriages and rattling windows in its path.

Most of the city dwellers were far too involved with their own lives to pay it any mind. As they hurried about their busy lives, men clutched at their overcoats and women drew their shawls tighter in vain attempts to ward off the chill.

Others were more attuned to the natural world and not so dismissive.

It was an ill wind, the old wives up in the Irish ward whispered. A bad omen, the mystics down in Chinatown warned.

But it was a boon for businesses. Wednesday nights were usually slow at the Horseshoe Club, but tonight the main hall was packed with locals and tourists alike, all looking to escape the unseasonably chilly weather.

In the hustle and bustle of the post-dinner crowd, it was easy to see how one man might slip in unnoticed and take a seat in the corner. From a vantage point obscured by the long mahogany bar, he could watch the goings-on with a fair assurance that he wouldn't be detected.

Waitresses in tight sleeveless bodices and black stockings kept the beer coming. The piano player plunked out an untitled rag that was barely audible over the din of the crowd. The dancing girls would return to the stage at 8 o' clock.

He raised the frosty beer mug in a mock salute. He was going to like San Francisco very much.

** - - - - - - - - - - - - - **

Blame it on the weather.

Brisco County, Jr. was having a run of bad luck.

In the greater scheme of things, it had started the day he had agreed to help a wayward heiress and her Mexican boyfriend, a decision that had lead to a close call with a military firing squad. In the end, President Cleveland himself had cleared both Brisco's name and his partner's name, but things didn't return to the way they were before he stared down the business end of a half-dozen Springfield rifles.

Something had changed then, something he couldn't quite articulate. It started out as a small but persistent nagging - like a pebble inside his boot. In the following weeks and months, he began to feel it more strongly but got no closer to figuring out precisely _what_ it was that had changed. Finally, after nearly a year of zigzagging aimlessly across the country, he returned to San Francisco.

And things were different here as well. His partner and his friends had moved on with their lives. The government had lost interest in his services for the moment. John Bly's gang had been dispatched. The new crop of criminals and bail jumpers didn't interest him. He toyed with the notice of reentering the legal profession, but the idea left him slightly nauseous.

So, in the end, Brisco County, Jr., spent his days hanging around the Horseshoe Club and playing cards. He wasn't a wealthy man to begin with – his partner, Lord Bowler, had been the businessman in the relationship. Between his wanderlust, women, and stud poker, he ate through his savings before he knew it.

Which brought him to his current predicament.

"Must've woke up on the wrong side of the bed," he muttered, his eyes on the worthless cards in his hand.

"A bed you still haven't paid for." Ellie, proprietress, hostess, barkeep, and guardian of order at the Horseshoe Club, tapped her foot impatiently. She stood, arms crossed, her gaze steady, her voice impatient.

It gnawed at him that he was past due on his rent. Despite the reputation of his professional kinsman, Brisco was a man of honor. He paid his debts.

"You'll have your rent," Brisco replied finally, taking a long moment to study his opponent. "For this month and next. In one," a quick glance at his cards and then back to his opponent, "two minutes."

Ellie crossed her arms. "If you're going to hang around here, Mister, I'll put you to work," she said, only half-joking, pushing through the crowd that had formed around the table.

"I don't doubt it," Brisco said as she left. He returned his full attention to the young man sitting across from him. His sole opponent was an actuary from Philadelphia. The other players had folded long ago; some remained at the table, others watched from the bar, drinking away their losses.

He could have suspended the game for another ten or fifteen minutes and on another night he might have done just that. Instead, Brisco slid a pair of gold coins to the center of the table. "Call."

The young out-of-towner splayed his cards out on the knotted wooden tabletop. "Full house. Aces and eights."

Brisco glanced down, frowned. He threw his cards down: a pair of threes, a six, a nine, a jack.

A collective gasp rose from the crowd, followed by murmurs of pity. The spectators shuffled away, as though uncomfortable at seeing the legendary Brisco County, Jr., lose to an insurance man barely out of university.

The stranger grinned uneasily. "Does that mean I won?"

"Yeah, kid, you did. I'm out." Brisco reached for his hat. "Evening."

As he crossed to the bar, he could feel Ellie's eyes on him. Her turned and gave her an easy smile, hands raised, signaling that he didn't intend to skip out on the two weeks rent on which he was past due.

Ellie shook her head. "What's going on, Brisco?" she asked, her brown eyes wrinkled with concern. "You've been hanging around here for weeks, hustling the tourists over cards."

"It pays well..." he said, shrugged, and tried to step around her, but she put her hands on her hips, blocking his path. "But not well enough," he admitted.

"What? No more bad guys to round up?"

"I guess I'm just waiting to get restless again."

Ellie smiled. "Then I might have just the thing."

"Really?"

She thrust a broom and apron into his hands before he could protest. "The front walk needs sweeping. That wind - it's blown all manner of dust up in here." When he didn't move, she gently shoved him towards the door. "Hurry, before the crowd picks up again."

Brisco sighed, then shouldered the broom with a signature grin. "If it'll pay the rent," he said, heading for the door. "But I'll tell you something, Ellie. I got a feeling that something's coming."

"What?"

"I don't know," he admitted, but his eyes had that look that he got whenever he got started on 'the coming thing.' "Something. It could be right around the cor --- oomph!"

Brisco intended to say 'corner,' but someone barreled around the side of the building and directly into him. The newcomer was small and light, but he was caught off-guard and the impact sent him sprawling to the sidewalk, momentarily dazed.

Her eyes were wild, her breaths coming in ragged pants, and she appeared to be bleeding. She was barefoot, wearing a torn nightshirt - a man's nightshirt - and nothing else.

"Help," she gasped.

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Roll credits. More to come! 


	2. ACT I: Chapter 1

**Full disclaimers with the Prologue. In short, not mine. This is for fun and not profit. **

* * *

**- ACT ONE: "A Burning Question" -**

**- Chapter One -  
**

"Help me," she gasped. Her green eyes locked onto Brisco's brown eyes like a marksman taking aim at his target. Her gaze was penetrating and accurate. Then again, she was sprawled across his chest, her face inches from his own. It wasn't hard to make eye contact. The fear in her eyes was so intense Brisco had to force himself not to look away.

"Please..."

"Okay, okay, here..." Brisco said, trying to calm her as he struggled to his feet, pulling the girl along with him. "I'll help you -- "

She clung to him the way a kitten clings to a tree branch. Fervently. Desperately. Instinctively. Her fingernails clutched at his arm through his blue shirtsleeve, digging in with such ferocity that Brisco was certain he would have bruises in the morning.

"What's your name?"

"...he'll...they'll...kill me if they find out I saw...I...know..." The girl didn't interrupt him; rather, she continued to talk over him, not giving any indication that she had heard Brisco speak at all. She was panting, swallowing air in gulps, and it punctuated her speech. The words spilled out faster than her brain could string them into proper sentences. "...they know I know..."

"Who?" Brisco asked. In the past forty-five or so seconds, he had evaluated the situation and summed it up mentally into three neat points. One, someone had this girl scared witless. Two, she believed that said person (or persons) was in hot pursuit. Three, if he didn't loosen the vice grip she had on his arm, it was going to do permanent damage.

"Who's after you?" he repeated and, much to his relief, found her grip to be relaxing.

She didn't answer his question, didn't say anything at all. She titled her head, listening. Her body went rigid and when she spoke, it was no more than a ragged whisper. "Oh, god, here they come..."

Again, the death grip on his arm.

Brisco listened as well. Too much city noise normally gave him a headache and he had become accustomed to tuning it out during prolonged visits to San Francisco. Fortunately, the chilly weather and the weekday evening hour eliminated most of the usual sounds of the business district in which the Horseshoe Club resided.

Tonight, there were shouts and heavy footfalls, sounds of men - maybe two or three - running, their boots echoing off the cobblestones no more than a block away. The noise seemed to be originating from the alley that ran behind the Horseshoe Club. The girl had appeared suddenly; Brisco couldn't be sure that she had come from that direction.

Still, it was worth a look.

His left hand released the hammer thong on his Colt revolver. He didn't draw the weapon, however, even though the streets were all but deserted.

Ellie emerged from inside, drawn by the commotion. She stood in the doorway, flanked by two curious waitresses. She waved them back inside and then asked, "Brisco? Are you alright?"

"Brisco? Brisco County?" the young woman asked. There was still palpable fear in her voice, but hope also tinted it was she spoke his name.

"Junior," he said. "Yeah, that's me." And then, turning his head slightly, "Yes, Ellie, I'm fine."

"Oh, thank god." The girl breathed a sigh of relief, relaxing her grip just slightly. "I've been looking for you. I need your -- "

"Hold that thought," Brisco said. Gently, he nudged the young woman towards the double doors where Ellie was waiting.

Brisco met Ellie's eyes and she nodded once, almost imperceptibly, not needing an explanation.

Ellie reached out and took the girl's arm in a manner that could only be described as maternal. Speaking softly, she said, "You poor thing. Come inside where it's warm. I'll get you a blanket." The two women disappeared inside as the doors swung shut.

The shouts from down the street had quieted. The muffled noises in the remaining sound pool were easily identified as spillover from one of the dance halls and restaurants in the vicinity.

The three wide streets that spun out from the oddly shaped intersection created by the vee-shaped facade of the Stoltz building - which housed the Horseshoe Club and several other smaller businesses - were clear. There was no pedestrian traffic tonight. A hansom cab clattered by slowly, harness leather creaking, the horse's hooves echoing dully against the paved street. The lights were out; the driver was off shift and heading back to the livery.

He waited until the hoof beats grew distant and then Brisco stared down into the alley. He squinted into the blackness, waiting until his eyes adjusted to the dim light before stepping in. The moon was a pale crescent and no help. The amber glow from the electric arc lamp on the street corner didn't reach into the shadows.

Narrow and dark as pitch - it was the perfect spot for an ambush.

The back door to the nightclub's kitchen stood along the brick wall just a few paces into the alley. A pair of gaslights hung on either side of the doorframe. Both were unlit.

He patted down his vest pockets until he found some matches. He fished out the small box, pulled out a match, and struck it. There was a hiss and the sharp tang of sulfur. He raised the match and the alley was briefly bathed in light.

It was empty.

Sliding the glass pane open, he reached up and turned the small knob to issue the gas, then raised the match to light the lamp. The flame had worked its way down the length of the matchstick. It licked at his fingertips.

Brisco dropped the match and swore. As he reached for another, he heard the sound of metallic clattering across cement, followed by the sound of someone shuffling around in the dark. Another rattle, louder this time, and then a loud, reverberating _clang._

In one smooth move, Brisco drew his revolver and flattened himself against the side of the building. Finger on the trigger, he rounded the corner.

A scrawny mongrel dog was rummaging through an upended trashcan by the garbage chute at the rear of the building. Brisco lowered his gun. The dog soundlessly bared its fangs and then turned and loped off, disappearing into the shadows.

Whoever had been pursuing the girl was apparently long-gone. With a flip, he holstered the Colt and turned to head back inside. It occurred to him, just then, that if someone _were_ hiding in the alley, the only possible place would be on the fire escape

_Clink._

The grating sound of metal-on-metal caused him to freeze. The fire escape ladder rattled down, slamming into the pavement with a hollow echo.

Instinctively, Brisco reached for his revolver. _I didn't look up_, he realized, a second too late, as the smooth sole of an Oxford dress shoe connected with his chin.

The owner of the shoe leapt deftly from the ladder and landed a second blow that glanced off of Brisco's shoulder. He tried for a third but Brisco was expecting it and rolled to the side.

The assailant's first slammed into the brick wall of the building. He cursed loudly.

The leather dress shoe was on the foot of a stocky dark-haired man of average height who presently clutched his broken hand swore revenge. He wore a dark blue suit, exquisitely tailored. The smoothness of the fabric proclaimed the high grade of the wool; the lapels were uniquely notched, an expert tailor's signature mark. It was the kind of expensive cut that was usually preferred by successful bankers or businessmen, not thugs who engaged in fisticuffs with strangers in alleyways.

There was a clamoring sound followed by a soft thud as someone else climbed down to join in the fray.

The newcomer - leaner than his companion but just as nattily dressed - moved with an edgy quickness that was common to prizefighters. He circled his quarry then moved in with a series of right-handed jabs.

Brisco ducked the jabs effortlessly but the hard left hook that followed momentarily disoriented him. He flashed back to two years prior, to a certain rigged boxing match in a small city on the Mississippi Delta. _Move your feet_, a voice in his head whispered.

He dodged the next bout of punches and met them with a few well-thrown punches of his own.

However, his opponent was clearly trained in hand-to-hand and knew how to keep his distance. He moved in only to strike.

Brisco regretted that he had never studied boxing while at Harvard, though it had been offered. Still, life as a bounty hunter had taught him a thing or two.

Annoyed that his fellow combatant wasn't going down easily, the pugilist moved in closer for a kayo punch.

When he was close enough, Brisco got one of his legs behind the other man's and turned outward, pulling the man off balance. He toppled backward to the ground.

"I need a time out," Brisco quipped, as he cleared leather with the Colt.

The first assailant - the bulkier one - chose that moment to slam into Brisco from the side, taking them both down hard. The revolver went skidding across the concrete.

The second attacker was back on his feet and he joined his companion. The heavier of the two held the bounty hunter while his leaner cohort delivered a series of rib-bruising punches.

After one below-the-belt strike that was against all civilized rules of boxing, a voice called out, soft but firm, from the shadows.

"Enough, boys. Mr. County gets the message."

The beating ceased immediately and Brisco was released.

_How does he know my name?_ Brisco thought as he sank to his knees, but the question he asked was, "What message?"

"Stay away from the girl."

Brisco heard rather than saw the speaker's smile, but he knew it was there.

Painfully, he got to his feet. He leaned against the side of the building for support, catching his breath. Some part of him was surprised at almost being bested by a pair of well-dressed muscle, even though he had been out of the game lately. _And you're not getting any younger._

During the struggle, he had ripped one of his attacker's cuff links from the sleeve of his linen shirt. Brisco turned the small item over in his palm. It was a curious thing: oval in shape, 18-karat gold by the feel of it, and with some kind of engraving on the face. He held it up to the glow of the arc lamp in front of the nightclub. A fleck of red - a ruby - was mounted in the center of the character that was etched into the gold. It was familiar, but he didn't instantly recognize it.

Time to talk to the girl.

* * *

From the author: Sorry for the long time between updates. The author has been obsessing over taking the state Bar exam. I'm sure Brisco would sympathize! As soon as it is over, new chapters will be far more frequent. Thanks to all who are sticking with me and drop me a line/review to let me know what you think!! - K.C.H. 


	3. ACT I: Chapter 2

**Full disclaimers with the Prologue. In short, not mine. This is for fun and not profit. **

* * *

**- ACT ONE: "A Burning Question" -**

**- Chapter Two -  
**

"Beatrice," the young woman said between mouthfuls of food. She ate like she hadn't had anything in days. As bony as she was, that probably wasn't far from the truth. "My name's Beatrice Malone."

She had been cloistered in the small room that served as the bookkeeping office at the Horseshoe Club for nearly an hour. Backstage and away from the crowd, it was relatively quiet. The sequestration had the intended effect: girl seemed much calmer now.

She sat in a straight-backed wooden chair. Though it was unpadded, she seemed quite comfortable, her legs drawn up underneath her body. She was using the roll top desk as a table, a half-empty dinner plate sat before her. She still wore the nightshirt but a woolen blanket had been draped about her shoulders and secured with a straight pin.

Brisco leaned against the wooden doorjamb, positioning himself so that he could see all avenues of approach down the orange-walled hall: backstage archway, the dressing rooms, the kitchen, the staircase, and the door leading to the alley.

He was the first to see the dancers in the 8 o'clock show as they sashayed down the hallway from the dressing rooms. Some demurely looked away, others giggled, and few whispered "meet me later."

A soft cough from interior of the small room pulled him back to his present task. When he had mentioned the attack in the alley, Beatrice didn't seem surprised.

"Three men, one that did the talking and the two others that did all the work. One skinny, one not? Expensive suits and nice shoes?"

Brisco nodded. "That sounds about right." He paused while she finished eating, taking the time to size her up more completely.

She was thin and sallow-faced; he put her in her early 20s. When she spoke, it was with a twanging Midwestern accent and her choice of words indicated a lack of education. Her hair was a dirty shade of blonde and unwashed. Her hands were rough with bitten or broken fingernails and ragged cuticles.

"Where're you from, Beatrice?"

"Missouri. Saint Louis," she answered, scraping the last remnants of her dinner from the tin plate.

"Long way from home," Brisco pointed out. _That explained the accent._

She nodded in agreement. "I came to find Alice." She reached for her water glass and drank, swallowing the water with inelegant gulps

"You said you were looking for me...?"

Beatrice nodded eagerly, putting down her fork. "Yes, I was. I am. I want...I want to hire you."

"Hire me?"

"You're the famous bounty hunter Brisco County, Jr., aren't you?

"I am."

She reached under the hem of the nightshirt.

Brisco ducked his head and averted his eyes, though he was unable to resist the urge to sneak a peek back when the woman hiked the shirt up dangerously high.

She pulled out a pocket - a hand-sewn cloth pouch that she wore (presumably) tied about her waist - and laid it on the desk. The top was unfastened and she dug around inside, finally pulling out a dog-eared copy of a dime novel. She laid it face-up on the desk

Inwardly, Brisco sighed but said nothing. This still happened, every once in a while. He glanced down at the worn paper cover. _Ambush in Skeleton Canyon!_ the cover screamed in a big, bold font, the exclamation point an important part of the title.

He hadn't read this particular dime novel - really, he hadn't read any of them - but he didn't need to read it to know that it was hardly accurate. To begin with, it was Calabasas Canyon, not Skeleton Canyon, and it wasn't exactly an ambush. _A story for another day._

Beatrice was rambling again; the patter of words was the same whether she was very excited or very frightened.

"My best friend Alice Russell used to read to me back home. Not just dime novels, but real novels as well. Classics. Twain, Hardy, Hawthorne," she rattled the names off and then ran a finger along one of the creases in the dime novel's cover. "But this one was her favorite. She was going to teach me how to read one day..." her voice faltered a bit.

"You can to San Francisco to find her?" Brisco asked, prompting, trying to steer the conversation towards something that would shed light on the events of tonight.

"About a year ago, Alice saw an ad in the local paper. A man was looking for girls to work as stema...steno..." she looked up, her face twisted in confusion.

"Stenographers?"

"Yes, that's it. Anyways, Alice was real smart. Educated. Went to a private school on the east coast for a while. She figured this was a job she could do. She wired the man and he offered her a job if she came to San Francisco. So, she took all of her savings and left on the train. She promised to send me the money so I could come live with her, once she got things together."

Brisco waited for her to continue, though he already knew where this story was heading.

"She wrote me every day and though she never said as much, I could tell from her letters that things weren't going so well. Once she got here, she found the job included duties that, that...that she wasn't prepared for."

Brisco didn't need to ask what those duties might be. Somewhere out in the maze of cobbled streets was a man who was luring young women to the city and then preying on their innocence. His growing cynicism about the city told him that described any one of a hundred men in San Francisco. Or Chicago, New York, Boston...

"...then, seven months ago, things got better. She got a job keeping books for a druggist. And she met a man, someone who she said was going to rescue us both from destitution."

"Who?"

"I don't know his name, exactly. But he was rich. Very rich. She wrote that in her last letter to me. Underlined it. Just before Thanksgiving, she wrote that they were going to be married! She sent me a train ticket and asked me to come for Christmas. I sent a letter and wired her from Sacramento before I got on the ferry, but no one met me when I got here. It was so...so frightening. I was so lost."

Her voice trailed off. She visibly shuddered, chilled despite the blanket, then paused to drink from her water glass.

Brisco listened silently. The chaos and hustle around the Ferry House and Market Street, where cable cars chugged out from the terminus every 30 seconds, could confound lifelong residents of the city. To those witnessing it for the first time, it was probably downright terrifying.

Regaining her composure, Beatrice continued, "Once I got into the city, I couldn't find Alice. The apartment at the address she had given me was rented out to someone else. I found a cheap room on Fordyce and worked...took in what work I could while I searched for her."

The story had a familiar ring to it. Men and women, young and old, arrived in the big city every day. Whether they were just starting out or starting over, they all shared the common belief that a life existed in San Francisco that was far better than anything in whatever town or burgh they had left behind. Often, they spent their entire life savings to make the trip, stepping off of the ferry or train with big dreams but little cash.

Some did succeed in making those dreams come true with an untold amount of hard work and a twist of fate. The business directories and political rolls were dotted with names whose stories ended positively.

Usually, though, the city chewed these unfortunate souls up and spat them back out. Those who couldn't or wouldn't run for home ended up somewhere along Fordyce Avenue. An offshoot from the Tenderloin, it was a district of gambling dins, tenements, and brothels. The line of work this young woman had found was obvious.

"So what happened tonight?" Brisco asked. He gestured towards the torn nightshirt she wore, indicating he wanted to cut through the superfluous backstory for now.

Beatrice sniffed as though she suddenly had a runny nose. Her eyes began to tear up as she recalled, "After weeks of searching, I finally found the druggist Alice had been working for before she vanished. He still remembered her, said she hadn't been in since...since..." she paused, squinted her eyes, trying to remember the exact date. "Well... just before Christmas. I got her diary and some unposted letters that she never had the chance to send. But I sensed the man wasn't telling me something so I did whatever I had to do to find out what happened to Alice...

_...with her ear pressed against the heating grate, even though her own heart was pounding loud as a kettle drum, Beatrice Malone could hear every sound floating up from downstairs. There were shouts and curses, bottles smashing on the floor, harsh whispers, heels stomping, leather scuffing the floor. Above it all, the terrified pleading of the drug store's proprietor, Mr. Coates, and the hushed demands of his tormentors._

_Twenty minutes ago, maybe thirty, the sound of breaking glass and the door being kicked in had made Coates go instantly limp inside her. He gave a panicked whimper and then roughly pushed her off of him, pushed her so hard that she nearly fell out of the wide bed. He struggled back into his trousers then tossed her one of his nightshirts._

"_Cover yourself. Hide. And for God's sake, don't make a sound," he hissed, then eased out of the bedroom._

_By lying flat on her stomach and peering through the grate's latticework, Beatrice found that she could see into the pharmacy housed on the first floor of the building. Coates was kneeling on the floor in the center of the room, half dressed, broken glass glittering around his knees. His hands were tied behind his back and he was bleeding from several nasty lacerations on his head._

_There were three intruders, though only two of them entered her line of sight. One was stocky and dark-haired, his movements methodical, inflicting the most damage without being lethal; the other was slim, fair, and moved with an athlete's grace. Both were dressed in suits that looked like they cost more than Beatrice had ever earned in her twenty-three years._

_While they lashed out with punches, kicks, and an occasional bottle upside their captive's head, the two men never uttered a single word. They let their co-conspirator serve as the mouthpiece and the third intruder made his presence known by his voice only. _

_The heating grate afforded a line of sight from the front door to the till on the counter, depending on which way the viewer held her head. The third man kept well behind he counter, near the storeroom. Try as she might, Beatrice could never get a look at him._

_As a group, they seemed professional. Though it was unlikely in this neighborhood, the blinds on the windows had been pulled down tightly, blocking out the prying eyes of anyone who might pass by and be tempted peek inside. They worked together, one running the show, the other two carrying out the physical tasks on cue, without being told to do so. It was if they were acting according so some prearranged script. _

_If they were hired guns, they surely had cost someone dearly. By the way Coates had reacted, it was as if the attack was something he expected to come eventually and not just a random, senseless act of violence._

_Throughout the "interrogation," the third man's voice remained calm, at times becoming conversational, almost congenial. He spoke with unaccented English that was articulate and obviously well educated. One thing he was not, however, was patient._

"_Mr. Coates, once again, you fail to be reasonable," the speaker said wearily. "I will give you one more chance. Tell me where it is." The 'or else' was not spoken aloud, but it was there just the same._

"_I don't know," the pharmacist repeated, his voice anguished. "OhgodIdon't know..." he gave a strangled sob and then began to weep openly and uncontrollably. _

_The hidden man sighed a disappointed, almost sorrowful, sigh. "Very well," he said softly. _

_Beatrice couldn't see him motion to the other two, but he must have done so before turning to leave. _

_The heavier-set man swiftly pulled a revolver from the holster he wore beneath his suit coat. The echo from the gunshot was deafening._

_Coates slumped to the floor unceremoniously, but Beatrice didn't witness it. She scooted back from the grate the instant the man drew his gun. On her feet, she wildly looked about for an escape route._

_The pharmacist had made no mention of Beatrice and the intruders didn't seem to know she was watching from upstairs, but now she knew that they must know about her. _

_There were footsteps on the stairs, climbing towards the bedroom. These were not the heavy, panicked footsteps of someone trying to flush out a hidden eyewitness. Instead, they were the slow, careful footsteps of someone who knew the witness was there, had known it all along, and relished prolonging the victim's terror a few moments longer._

_Beatrice backed away, her eyes darting around. The window! She wrestled with it, forcing it open and climbing out on the rusty old fire escape. She fell crossing the landing to the ladder, cutting her knees on the sharp grillwork, but she didn't stop moving. _

_Loud rattling from above as one of the intruders climbed out onto the fire escape. _

_Reaching the street level, Beatrice turned around and, though every fiber of her being screamed at her to stop, she looked up._

_And gasped._

_She ran and ran..._

"...and that's how I found you." Telling the story, reliving it, had taken much out of the girl. Beatrice was shaking. Tears rolled down her cheeks and she made no move to wipe them away.

"If it's protection you want, there are men better suited to that than me here in the city," Brisco said. Pulling his handkerchief from inside his coat, he knelt down beside her chair and dabbed at her cheeks. "I'll help you find someone, stay with you until you do."

"No," Beatrice said, sitting up straight, her voice stronger than her countenance would suggest. "I want to hire you. I know Alice is dead; I want you to bring her killer to justice. You're the only one I trust." Reaching into the pocket, she pulled a canvas coin purse. She reached out and grabbed Brisco's hand, stuffing the purse into it before he could protest.

"My savings. It's not much, but it's all I have left and it's all yours, if you'll help me." Her green eyes had that desperate look in them again.

Brisco lifted the purse, juggling it from one hand to the other. Coins jangled inside, but it wasn't heavy. He didn't need to look inside to know it didn't contain more than four or five dollars. _So much for paying the rent._ He handed the purse back to Beatrice.

"There's something else, something that might make your job easier."

"What's that?" There was something in the tone of her voice that made him uneasy.

"I didn't know it until tonight, but now I know the men who murdered Mr. Coates, the same ones who attacked you in the alley, were involved in Alice's disappearance and her, her death."

"How's that?"

She hesitated a brief moment before answering. "When I looked back, I...I recognized the man on the fire escape. He had to have been the speaker, the one calling the shots inside, because I saw the other two but I never saw him until then. I knew him instantly when I did."

Brisco felt a strange, sudden sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.

Beatrice turned the pocket upside down. A small notebook with a scuffed leather cover slid out and she unwrapped the leather strap that bound the cover. "Alice's diary," she explained as she gently thumbed through it until she found the page she was looking for.

The date across the top of the page was printed in a precise hand. It read: "July 22, 1894," A photograph on Kodak paper was secured to the page with a metal clip. The black-and-white snap shot showed a handsome man, late 20s or early 30s. Based on the contrasts in the photo, he wore a light-colored suit; his dark hair was swept back rakishly from what were probably very blue eyes. He was clean-shaven and his half-smile was probably meant to look mysterious, but it only made the face look smug and self-assured.

The photo was signed, "with love, E. C." The writing was sloppy and distinct from that on the diary page.

"That's him," Beatrice said, her voice low and hard. "This is the man I saw on the fire escape. He's, _was_, Alice's lover. He killed her."

"You don't know his name?" Brisco looked up, his eyes meeting Beatrice's.

She looked away, refusing to meet his stare. "Alice only referred to him as 'E.C.' in her letters. I don't know his name. I...I never learned to read, Mr. County. I always had someone read to me, which is probably why Alice would never tell me all the details." There was an unmistakable tincture of disappointment in her voice. "He's rich, I know. Alice wrote that he was..." she trailed off helplessly.

The man in the photograph looked very, very familiar.

Brisco hadn't got a look at the third man in the alley, but it seemed he had seen this man's face somewhere recently. He read the local paper and while he didn't know all of San Francisco's power players by name or face, he didn't exactly live under a rock, either. It took a few moments before he could place the face, but when it came to him, it him like the proverbial ton of bricks.

"E.C. stands for Edward Charles. Edward Charles Atterbury," he said at last.

Beatrice raised a delicate eyebrow. "Who is he?"

"He's the scion of the Atterbury Shipping Company. As in the "owns-half-of-the-ships-in-San-Francisco-Bay" Atterburys. Your friend was right; he is rich. Rich and very connected."

Beatrice nodded, swallowed, leaned across the table. "You see why I need your help. There's nothing I can do alone. I'm only a woman, a poor woman, at that. Mr. County, if you won't help me, who will?"

* * *

Commercial Break! 


	4. ACT I: Chapter 3

**Full disclaimers with the Prologue. In short, not mine. This is for fun and not profit.****  
**

* * *

**- ACT ONE: "A Burning Question" -****  
**

** - Chapter 3 -  
**

There cable car creaked and groaned its way up Powell Street to the top of Nob Hill.

The car was empty, so Brisco took a seat in the interior. Besides being sheltered from the wind, it allowed him to keep an eye on the two men on horseback following at a distance they assumed kept them out of sight.

He watched as the city fanned out behind them in a sea of lights that twinkled all the way to the inky black expanse of the San Francisco Bay. One hundred years from now, he idly wondered what the city would look like. Judging by the way high-rise office buildings were springing up in the financial district to the east, there wouldn't be a view and the stars would be blotted out by the bright, electric lights. Even Brisco County, Jr., had to admit that there was a downside to the 'coming thing.'

Beatrice fidgeted on the bench next to him.

"You're really going to help me?" she asked. "You're going to find Alice's killer?"

"I'm certainly gonna try." And by that, he meant he would look into it, ask a few questions, rattle a few cages. There were certain things about the story that didn't quite make sense. If a wrong had been committed, if a woman had been murdered, Brisco would fight to see that justice was served against her killer. But if not, if the woman had simply eloped with her fiancé...

Brisco thumbed through the diary as the trolley chugged steadily upward. If he could get a glimpse into the young woman's mind, perhaps that would help him solve her disappearance.

Alice was a faithful diarist; the small leather book was nearly filled and the dates indicated she wrote every day without fail. She wrote in a way that conveyed intelligence, independence, and a keen resourcefulness. Her diary revealed a spirit hardened but not broken by the cruel city. She was devoted to her friends and successful at her job as a bookkeeper in the pharmacy.

By all accounts, Alice Russell seemed like a sensible girl. But sensible people could do foolish things in the name of love.

"E.C." made his first appearance in an entry dated May 10th, 1894. By her account, she rejected his advances at first but was gradually won over by his attention. It seemed that the wealthy playboy really had fallen in love with the common girl. He wooed her with gifts, moved her into a new apartment, and eventually proposed to her.

His father didn't approve, of course, and the couple kept their relationship a secret. Alice wrote that E.C. wanted to marry without his father's blessing, an act that would surely cut the junior Atterbury out of the will. But...

"_...E.C. says we will elope at Christmas time, smuggle ourselves aboard one of his ships and sail for London, where we will be wedded and live penniless but happy..."_ Alice had written back in September. _"I told him it was a foolish plan and I would have no part of it. We do it right, or not at all."_

The words of a practical girl. Or...one who wanted nothing less than an extravagant wedding in Saint Mary's Cathedral, the kind that had San Francisco's finest on the guest list and left tongues wagging in the society page of the major newspapers for days.

Brisco realized he was ill-equipped to make that particular distinction. He glanced out the window, checking to see if the cable car was still being trailed - it was - and then flipped ahead.

The last entry was dated December 18th.

"_B. will arrive soon. I can scarcely contain my excitement as I've missed her so much. We shall share my apartment, E.C. approves, and I'll bring her to work at the apoth."_

An innocuous entry, one written by someone who didn't appear to be under duress. It declared nothing was out of the ordinary in the life of young Alice Russell. It did not seem that she was planning to run off without telling her best friend.

Her disappearance was, in the very least, out of character.

Besides the photographs, the diary contained other items as well. Several sheets of paper had stuffed between the blank pages in the back. Brisco unfolded them carefully. They were lined green-and-cream colored ledger paper, the kind used for accounting and bookkeeping. The items were listed in the same hand as the diary; numbers, dates, names of what he assumed to be customers and items sold. The edge of one side was torn and ragged, as if the pages had been ripped forcefully from their binder.

The streetcar slowed and stopped. Brisco refolded the pages and stuffed them back into the diary, making a mental note to go over them later. The most intimate details of Alice's life were contained between the leather covers of the journal; if she put the pages there, she had done so for a reason.

Beatrice had been silent for several minutes. Finally, she asked, "Where are we going?"

"I need to leave you somewhere safe while I poke around," he explained. He didn't mention that if her suspicions had any merit, he was going to need all the help he could get to take down the son of one of wealthiest men in not only the city, but also the whole United States.

Beatrice slumped her shoulders, obviously not pleased with being stashed away somewhere.

They disembarked at Poplar Street, one stop earlier than planned, and walked north along the deserted street. Brisco doubled back twice, slipping down the strips of cobblestone that separated some properties instead of cutting across manicured lawns - it was far easier to follow tracks left in the wet grass than those on stone. After leaving the streetcar, he didn't see their pursuers.

Two blocks later and due east of where they left the trolley, Brisco and Beatrice paused in front of a modest brick mansion with ornate iron railings.

Beatrice gaped open-mouthed at the mansions that lined up on either side, but she remained silent as Brisco lead her up the steps to the recessed porch. He reached for the brass and knocked three times on the massive white oak doors. They waited.

After a brief moment, the doors parted on well-oiled hinges. An elderly butler in a tuxedo appeared in the doorway and smiled pleasantly. "Ah, Mr. County, sir. Do come in."

Reginald stepped aside and ushered the guests inside.

Beatrice gazed around, her eyes wide. Brisco knew exactly how she felt. It wasn't the most lavish mansion, but it was tastefully appointed and impressive to someone who lived in a rented room above a nightclub or in a tenement apartment.

The dining set and end tables were hewn from the same dark wood, cherry perhaps. The walls were covered with a dusky rose-colored wallpaper that matched the drapes. The bookcases were full of books with spines neatly aligned; a few volumes were scattered on the tables for good measure. Light came from a few well-placed lamps. A tall glass display cabinet rested against the far wall, housing an impressive collection of crystal. _Lalique? No, Baccarat._ Brisco couldn't help but notice the cabinet was anchored to the wall with a heavy length of chain.

A fire blazed in the green marble fireplace. Brisco took a seat in one of the armchairs before it and motioned for Beatrice to do the same.

Beatrice primly sat on the white upholstered settee. She rested her hands in the ample folds of fabric at her lap. The dress she wore had been donated by one of the nightclub dancers. It was designed for a woman of more generous proportions. It made Beatrice look like a child playing dress-up with her mother's clothes.

"His Lordship will be right down," the butler said, gave a slight bow, and then smartly disappeared.

** - - - - - - - - - - - - -**

In a much larger, more splendid mansion just two streets away, Edward Charles Atterbury waited outside a bedroom door. He alternated between pacing worriedly and leaning fretfully against the banister.

After a moment, the door opened and out stepped a short, bespectacled man with a white beard.

"News, Doctor?" Charles - as he preferred to be called - asked, his voice cracking just a bit.

"It's not good, I'm afraid," Amos Spickelmier, M.D., said with a shake of his head. "He doesn't seem to be responding to treatment. There's not much more I can do."

They descended the marble-and-gold staircase side-by-side.

"Perhaps a trip to the hot springs would help?" Charles suggested, brow knitted.

"Perhaps," Spickelmier replied, "But moving him in this condition wouldn't be wise. My advice, dear boy," and he paused, placing a hand on the junior Atterbury's shoulder and smiling kindly, "would be to see to it that your father's affairs are in order and reconcile any differences you have in the time remaining."

Charles smiled grimly, putting on a brave face. "Yes, sir. Thank you for...for doing all that you could." Again, his voice cracked. He was the perfect image of a dutiful, sorrowful son.

Spickelmier reached up and placed a hand on the other man's shoulder, giving it a soft pat. "Be strong. Every man in your father's employ, his business partners, his clients - they will all be looking to you lead them soon. You must set the example."

Agnes, one of the house staff, emerged from one of the mansion's many inner rooms. Her crisp black-and-white uniform rustled, announcing her presence.

"Please show Dr. Spickelmier out, Agnes," Charles said, his brilliant blue eyes crinkling ever so slightly, as though it pained him to keep up the brave facade. "I'll be downstairs. See that I'm not disturbed." He gave a curt nod, dismissing them both before turning and heading for the staircase at the rear of the mansion that led to the basement.

Once he was out of eyesight, he paused to smooth out his suit jacket, as if the doctor's touch had soiled it in some way. He continued down the stairs; by the time he had reached the bottom, he was smiling his customary half smile.

_La Gioconda_ had nothing on Edward Charles Atterbury.

The rooms on the lowest level of the home were his and his alone. The four rooms housed his sleeping quarters, a private bath, a combination library/study, and a massive parlor that featured a fully stocked bar and carambole billiards table.

Two men waited for him in the parlor. One was lining up the billiard balls; the other was attempting to pour a drink at the bar while protectively cradling a hand that was swollen to the size of a baseball catcher's glove. His attempts were largely unsuccessful; more of the caramel-colored liquid sloshed out of the glass than into it.

"Careful, please. That bourbon would cost you two dollars a shot in the finest saloon in San Francisco," Charles said as crossed the room and reached for the bottle. Nodding to the man's injured hand, he added, "Spickelmier just left. You should have asked him to look at that. I'm sure it's broken. The bones need to be set or they'll never heal properly."

"The old man asks too many questions. He would want to know what happened," the dark-haired man muttered." He was queasy from the pain and the thought of having his broken bones manipulated by the German physician only exacerbated the feeling.

Charles reclined in an armchair of butter-soft leather. "Tell him..." he took a drink, smiled, enjoying the warmth of the liquid, "Tell him that you were sparring with John."

The blonde man at the billiards table looked up at the mention of his name, nodding as if he'd validate any such claim.

"So," Charles said, deftly moving the conversation forward. "News?"

John spoke. "Walter and I followed the bounty hunter to a mansion just off of Powell."

"Which one?" Charles moved only his eyes, flicking them between the two men.

John repeated the address and added, "He took the girl with him."

"The residence of one Lord Bowler," Atterbury snorted in disgust. "A rather crass fellow who made a middling fortune and now believes he has earned the right to live amongst us." He paused to drink, the luxurious bourbon erasing the unpleasant taste left by speaking the man's name.

"It complicates things," John said, sinking into another armchair. "Unnecessarily."

"On the contrary."

"Your father?"

"Doesn't suspect a thing, the old fool." Charles smiled the kind of smile that always made his associates uneasy. It was ice-cold, reptilian.

"That girl - " John began.

"You'll not speak of her," Charles cut him off, his voice sharp, his eyes flashing in anger for the briefest of moments. When he spoke again, his voice was even, cool, amicable. "She's my concern and mine alone. The two of you - " he gestured between the two men, "will take care of the bounty hunters, but you'll leave the girl alone." The cold smile again.

John swallowed almost imperceptibly. "You're the boss."

There was a groan from across the room. Walter wobbled on his barstool, his face turning a sickly green.

Charles sighed wearily. "Wally, if you're going to be ill, please do so outside and not on my Persian rug."

**- - - - - - - - - - - - -**

"...so that's the story." Brisco concluded his narrative of events for the past few hours. "Beatrice," he paused, jerked his head slightly towards the young woman sitting on the settee near the fire, "...said her friend wouldn't just disappear. I've gone through Alice's diary; I believe her. I told her I would look into it, see if I could get a trail that might lead to a body, alive or otherwise."

Brisco leaned against the bookshelf on the far side of the room, near the large window with its dusky rose-colored drapes. Bowler stood nearby, arms crossed. They both spoke in hushed tones.

"So you're a private detective, now?" Bowler said. "Bounty huntin' not fulfilling enough?" He sounded almost...amused.

"I've been looking for a challenge." Brisco shrugged. It wasn't far from the truth.

"How do you know this lady..." Bowler began.

"Alice. Alice Russell," Brisco prompted.

"...this Alice Russell didn't just elope with her fiancé?"

"I don't know for sure, but I read her diary and it seems out of character. Think about it. Alice spurns Atterbury or he grows tired of her. Either way..."

"Doesn't help his daddy is a millionaire," Bowler groused.

"A millionaire on his death bed. It's been in all the papers," Brisco countered.

"I _do_ read," Bowler sniffed. "Occasionally."

"Maybe Junior decided he needed to grow up to take over the family business, and that meant tying up all the loose ends from his playboy days."

"Missing girl's a matter for the police, not a bounty hunter."

Brisco shook his head. "You know everyone is on the take. The police department's rife with corruption. Besides, who'd take her seriously?"

Bowler nodded once in agreement: the girl didn't make the most reliable witness. Still, it was clear he wasn't entirely convinced. After all, he didn't earn this mansion by going after untouchable quarry.

"How much she paying you?"

"Bowler! I'm shocked," Brisco said, feigning indignation. "It's not about the money..."

"That's what I thought," Bowler said with a knowing smirk. "See, Brisco, that's why you're always broke." He didn't say "and I'm not" aloud, but the mansion itself spoke volumes.

_Point taken. _

"The men who attacked me in the alley tonight were looking for Beatrice as well," Brisco reasoned. "At the very least, she saw a man tortured and murdered. There's one body out there, maybe two."

Bowler frowned, stared out the window, and even though he said nothing, Brisco knew he had gotten through.

"She can hide out here until you get things sorted out. Nobody can get in," Bowler finally relented, the latter part of the statement spoken almost like a dare.

Brisco smiled, feeling a rush of anticipation just like old times. It felt good to be working with his partner again, especially on such an unusual and difficult assignment.

Reginald the butler appeared, as if on cue. "The guest room has been prepared for Ms. Malone," he announced.

"Very well, Reginald," Bowler said. "Show her up." He gave the girl his most charming smile and added, "You'll be safe here."

"Thank you," Beatrice said softly, clutching at her oversized dress, her eyes on the floor.

"Follow me, madam," Reginald said and ushered the girl upstairs.

Once they had departed, Bowler turned back to his partner.

"I'll go check out the pharmacy. See if I can pick up a trail." he said, trying to sound inconvenienced but not quite succeeding. Whether he'd admit it or not, he was glad to be working with Brisco again, as well.

"Thanks." Brisco retrieved his hat and, opening the oak doors, stepped out on the porch. The night was still young.

"You seen Poole yet?"

"Next stop."

"When you do, tell'im I want my money." And then Bowler slammed the door.

* * *

A.N.: To put things in perspective, bourbon that costs $2 per shot in 1895 would cost roughly $45 for the same amount today. 

The exposition is almost finished. Thanks for sticking with me. There will be action soon - I promise!


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